I was 29 when I lost my dad and 35 when I lost my mom. Dad left us suddenly. Mom left us several years later after battling cancer. Through the years I’ve been asked which is harder: to lose someone suddenly or to lose someone having witnessed their deterioration over time. I have always shared that losing any someone anytime is hard and that each loss carries its own pain and complexity. The truth is I never really knew how much pain or how complex until one year and 8 months ago.
Our son Corban was 6 months old when my dad left us, and 6 years old when my mom left.
A human life learns to navigate circumstances, consequences, disappointment,
brokenness and unmet expectations, and failed dreams over time. Navigating reality and finality is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I remember vowing after my parents left not to make promises I can’t keep and I told myself that when Corban was old enough, I would always tell him the truth if he asks.
Through the years, as a family we freely talked about going to Heaven and what a wonderful place it would be. Then when Corban was five, his great-grandmother passed away after a lengthy illness. He had witnessed her move from the family home where we gathered for holidays, into assisted living where we’d occasionally visit, and then one day she passed away. We of course explained in the most age-appropriate way we knew how, that Grandma had moved on to Heaven.
I’ll never forget our son walking into a traditional southern funeral parlor for the first time. Confused he peered into the viewing room dimly lit by traditional southern funeral lamps with their pinkish glow, and he spotted Grandma lying in repose in the front of the room. Suddenly unimpressed, he turned his nose up and uttered, “Mama is THIS Heaven?”. We still chuckle about that moment.
One night when he was around 7 or so, we were lying in his bed staring at the sticky glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. I told him I loved him, that I was proud of him, and many other important dad things. The ceiling fan whirred as he thought about all I’d shared.
“Daddy, are you going to die?” The question startled me—first in a humorous way—somehow, he concluded that a serious conversation and dad saying I love you meant I’d be dying soon. But then his somber question settled on my heart. “Remember your promise and tell the truth” I reminded myself.
“Not right now, but yes someday.”
“When?” He asked.
“We never really know how life will play out son, but it could be any time.”
I knew it might worry him or make him sad, but I allowed us both to sit in discomfort for a while. In my mind, he needed to know that life just doesn’t always turn out like we expect. Inevitably, someday, we all lose special people in our lives. The fact was I wouldn’t always be around, things are not always perfect, dreams die and so do people. The sooner he learned those truths the better. I’d always be gentle with those truths, but he needed to know them. I was preparing him for reality.
“Daddy, am I going to die?” Oh man. I didn’t expect that. Now I’ve done it. I mulled responding with an incredulous “absolutely not”, “everything will be perfect”, “we’ll all be fine” or “everything’s gonna be ok.” After all, life is full of big beautiful moment after big beautiful moment, right?
I knew better and I had vowed to tell the truth and so I gently said, “Well, yes, someday we will all die.” There I said it.
Surprisingly he seemed to accept that truth, changed the subject and we talked some more and laughed and told silly jokes before he drifted off to sleep.
Even though I spoke the truth, I never once believed my son would leave us suddenly. If I am truly honest, when I left 7-year-old Corban’s room that night, every single expectation and dream I had for my son was still intact. I just knew in my heart and in my mind that I would leave first. This was the rational response primarily because my family track record and genetics weren’t that great, and I was ok with that. That is the proper order of things. While my mind spoke of the logical truth that the unthinkable could happen, my heart never once considered it. I believed if I was lucky enough, I’d get to see Corban marry, and we’d watch our grandchildren play in the treehouse out in our backyard. Period.
But anything can happen, and the terrible truth that I hate admitting is it happened to me, to us, to our family. I am reminded of that truth every day when I pass Corban’s spot in the cemetery less than two blocks from our house, and when I pull over and park to clean his headstone. I am reminded of that truth when I see his friends graduating college and marrying, and having children, and we celebrate each one, because that’s what he’d have us do, but we’re still reminded.
I am reminded of that truth EVEN WHEN I celebrate his name floating in a rocket in the heavens, each time his foundation provides a scholarship or a gift, each time we talk to a reporter to tell his story, when I leave a game on in the background in the living room, when I glance at my #corbanstrong wristband.
Even so, I’ve realized that life really is one beautiful moment, after another. We just don’t know how long those beautiful moments here will last.
And the truth is, it also brings me some joy to think about Corban stepping into eternity, surrounded by family and grandparents and great grandparents and the love of God. And I imagine his reaction now (compared to all those years ago) —“NOW THIS... THIS IS HEAVEN.”
--CorbansDad
(Thanks for listening to the ramblings of a grieving dad adjusting to a new life and who typically never sleeps. )
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To learn more or to support First Responders visit Serve Strong: The Corban Scott Goad Memorial Foundation.